


Needs

by NairobiWonders



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Joanlock - Freeform, tried for the angst but fell into the fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 14:43:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9612023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NairobiWonders/pseuds/NairobiWonders
Summary: Okay. Re-posting. Sorry about the confusion. I deleted this last night and did a bit more work on it. Not smut (don't want the title to mislead), mostly about communication.





	

1:15 p.m., Precinct meeting room:

"Perhaps you should go. "

Joan and Marcus looked up from their files and stared at Sherlock. The comment had been directed at Joan. 

"Excuse me?"

"Leave. You are getting no work done here. I'm sure you can find something to do that does interest you." His voice was matter of fact, but the anger was clear in his eyes. 

Marcus shifted uncomfortably in his chair and looked from one to the other. The mood in the meeting room had been tense this morning and he had been unsure as to the reason. This was something he had not expected.

Joan, clearly irritated, stared at Sherlock but did not respond. 

Sherlock continued, undeterred. "You are being a distraction, keeping me from my work."

He went too far and forced her reply, "Yes, that's right Sherlock. I am a distraction because if there is anyone in this room who is a distraction, it is clearly me."

Marcus quietly stood, and excused himself. "Why don't I give you two a minute." Neither acknowledged his statement and continued staring at each other, daring the other to say one more word. 

As the door closed behind Marcus, Sherlock, his voice a controlled whisper, spoke. "You have been in a mood for days upon days. You barely speak to me unless it's work related and even then your deductions and comments have been less than worthy of your skill and intellect."

Joan seethed but said nothing. 

He dramatically pointed a hand at her. "Your silence gives credence to my observation." Sherlock gave her a moment to respond. Silence. "You obviously don't care about the work or me, so why not just leave."

With a dead stare that betrayed no hint of the anger and hurt she felt, Joan closed the file before her. "If that's what you think .... if that's what you want ... I'll leave." She slid the file she had been working on across the table to him and stood.

"Good." Sherlock twitched and setting his face into a scowl, turned his attention to the file and ignored her departure.

 

11:30 p.m., Brownstone kitchen:

He had not had one word from Watson all day. The case broke without his help around ten p.m. and Sherlock, disgusted with himself and the rest of the world, made his way home. He assumed she was somewhere in the house but made no effort to confirm his assumption and descended to the kitchen. 

Sullenly, he reached for a knife and the stale baguette from the morning meal. Social skills were not his forte. Perhaps he could have handled the confrontation with Watson with more finesse. Bullying was probably not the correct approach but he was at wits end. 

He sliced and pondered how best to proceed. Footsteps on the stairs alerted him of her approach. Joan entered quietly, went to the cupboard and chose a glass. A quick side glance from Sherlock confirmed her mood had not altered. 

She set the glass on the counter and spoke to it rather than him. "I've rented a car. I'm leaving early tomorrow morning."

"Ow!" He dropped the knife and brought his cut finger to his mouth. Joan took a step to help him but he pulled backed from her touch.

Exasperated, she huffed and threw her hands in the air, "Fine, just fine. God forbid I should touch you." Upset, she scrutinized the empty glass trying to swallow the hurt that once again rose. 

"Will you be returning .... ? He looked scared and she couldn't fathom why.

"Of course I'll be returning ... why? ... Would you rather I move out? ..." Joan got flustered at the thought. "If, if that's the case just say so ...I'm sure I can find ..."

Sherlock realizing how quickly the situation was spiraling out of control, stopped her. "Watson! I did not say that. I would never ..... " he scrunched his face and tried to regain his composure. "What is wrong? You're moody and ..."

"Right... moody ...because I'm the moody one.... oh and the distraction." She cocked her head and hid behind the sarcasm.

"If I have a problem, the world knows." His voice rose and his gestures became more florid. "You ... you shut yourself off tighter than the Leviathan and there is no getting through to you!"

She rolled her eyes and moved to walk away. 

"There it is! Your signature move! You roll your eyes and walk."

Joan stopped. Hands clenched at her side. "And what is your signature move, Sherlock? Hmm? Filling the air with empty words while maintaining a decent distance? Words are so much easier, aren't they ... sterile ...You wouldn't want to actually back up those words, right? ... too messy to actually have to make contact."

He stood there confused, unsure as to what she was accusing him of. Joan felt foolish for having spoken and hurriedly left the room.

 

2 a.m., 2nd floor

Her room was dark. He entered without knocking. Quietly, he walked around to the far side of the bed. She lay on her side, eyes closed but she was not asleep. Sherlock gently sat on the bed, staying within the empty C curve her body left. He stared out at the slits of city light filtering in through the louvered shutters.

"Talk to me..." he whispered. "I don't understand. Tell me what's wrong ... please." 

Silence followed, broken only by the faint sounds of breaths taken and the creak of the mattress as Joan moved. She lay on her back, her eyes closed as she sought words.

"It's .... I don't know ..." she whispered and stopped. He waited and she eventually found the courage to open, "I guess I want more than this. We've lived together for years and yet... I feel ... I feel like we live in bubbles ... you talk about bonds and being better together and how important I am to you ... but you recoil at my barest touch ... It seems trivial but ..." She stopped. The bed creaked once again as Sherlock shifted in discomfort. Joan brought her hand to her face and covered her eyes protectively as she continued.

"You are able to physically share yourself with others. I've seen it ... a hand on a shoulder, an embrace to someone you don't even know ... but me .... me, you keep me at arms length and ... and it hurts." Her whispers faded into the darkness. 

Waves of embarrassment and regret for having spoken washed over her and she rolled onto her side away from him. Feeling petty and childish, she lay there praying he would leave, but he did not. 

The bed groaned as Sherlock moved. Tentatively, his fingertips hovered over her bare shoulder, landing lightly and moving to encircle her upper arm in a caress. The shock of touch left her immobile. Tears gathered in her eyes as she berated herself for shaming him into touch her. The mattress moved as he hastily moved diagonally toward her and placed his forehead at her nape. She felt his breath, hot and rapid, on her skin, followed by his confession. 

"I .... I have felt starved waiting for your words, any words .... for an inkling of your inner mindset, of your feelings ... clumsily, I've tried to draw you out .... lived in fear that you might leave me .... I have been so engrossed in my own needs, I didn't realize you were starved as well." He stopped and pressed his forehead closer to her. 

"True touch, honest touch is difficult for me. It sets off all manner of biological and emotional reactions. With most I can feign a superficial intimacy, a socially acceptable norm....." He took a breath and continued. "With you, I cannot feign indifference. I cannot hide ...I fear the touch of a hand held or an embrace will tear down the last barrier between us and ... and ..." He could not finish the thought; embarrassment and the fear of having said too much stopped him. Head hung, he awaited her revulsion. 

Joan slowly turned toward him. His eyes were closed; his face a study in pain. 

"Sherlock." She intoned his name like an endearment giving him the courage to face her. Her eyes warm, receptive, brimmed with tenderness and he dared to touch her once more, caressing her cheek with the tips of his fingers. She placed her own hand over his.

"How about we take this slow?" she asked. "I will do my best to tell you how I'm feeling and maybe you can try to show me ..."

He nodded solemnly, moving forward until noses touched and lips brushed. The charge of the brief contact pulled them together into an embrace.


End file.
